digging for diamonds

choosing quantity over quality

Creative work is a lot like mining for gemstones. You dig deep through the dense stone and soil of your psyche in search of raw, precious mineral ore. You drudge through darkness and excavate until exhaustion. Then, if you’re lucky, a glimmer catches your eye — shining sapphire, elegant emerald, or perhaps, dazzling diamond. Jackpot. You haul it back aboveground, where you cut, carve, and polish the rock until it's ready for exhibition.

a snapshot of my discography

Every week in music school, each student had to present a newly written song to the class. So every week, I trudged into the mines and shaped whatever crude material I could find into the semblance of a song. Some turned out decent; others were plain embarrassing to share. But we weren't expected to procure polished masterpieces — far from it. The purpose of the practice was to produce as many pieces as possible. In other words, to prioritize quantity over quality.

This counterintuitive principle was first popularized by Art and Fear and later adapted by James Clear's Atomic Habits.¹ The anecdote describes a photography class separated into two groups: one graded only on the quantity of photos taken and the other on the quality of a single, ultimate image. At the end of the semester, both groups were evaluated. Surprisingly, the quantity-focused group produced higher-quality work overall. Why? Because those students developed their creative skills through sheer repetition, improving with each attempt. Quantity led to quality.

Following this method, my classmates and I underwent repeated cycles of creation, completion, and starting anew. We learned to quickly identify meaningful ideas and craft them into effective forms. We also learned to tolerate imperfection and just move on to the next piece. Week after week, we built up our collections of unpolished gems.

Later on, toward the end of the songwriting program, we prepared to release our work. Naturally, we wanted to refine and showcase only our very best work — the pristine cuts. The diamonds.

But we faced a problem. Compared to the brilliant, monumental opuses of our idols, even our brightest creations felt dull and uninspired. Despite those endless hours in the mines, we were no closer to approximating the greatness of those we admired. This realization was demoralizing.

It was my songwriting professor who renewed our hope.

First, he reminded us, “Your best song today won’t be your best song a year from now.” His point: keep practicing, keep creating, and you will transform.² Your knowledge and ability will compound year after year. Just like the masters before us, as we shape our art, our art, in turn, shapes us.

Then, he pointed out that behind every masterpiece lies a vast body of work, most of it unremarkable. Bach composed over 1,000 pieces, yet only a fraction are widely known. Bob Dylan wrote over 700 songs, but as my Dylan-loving professor put it: “His bottom 90 percent is definitely not his top 10 percent.”

In the course of making great art, some of it will be mediocre. That’s alright. Some days, what you thought was diamond turns out to be quartz. Complete the work anyway. After all, even quartz can be polished so smooth that the truth shines brightly through and so reveals its beauty.

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👻 what I’ve been up to:

• Enjoying my last week of freedom before I start my new job next week. Gonna miss sleeping all day and doing whatever I want, but I guess it’ll be nice being a functional member of society.

• Spent some time in my favorite place in the world (pic below). If you live in NYC and like to read/write, come find me in this room on Saturdays.

1. There is some confusion over the medium used in the anecdote; one story uses a ceramics class and the other photography. Austin Kleon cleared this up here.

2. Yes this is Carol Dweck’s growth mindset in disguise. Sue me.